An excellent nature essay by Marguerite Wiser

The tangy smell of tomato plants drifts on the warm breeze. I bury my toes in cool dark earth as I watch honey bees move from one blossom to the next, humming to themselves as they work. It is here I find myself, a sliver of solitude in this small corner of the world so teeming with life. Thin green stems curve and stoop under the weight of their burden. As my nose fills with their earthy scents, I relax. Here, time is nothing more than light and dark, the movement of the sun, and the sway of the trees. My head clears, my thoughts become my own. My wilderness is here. Not in the garden’s seemingly endless rows or in the cloudless skies, or even in the earth itself, rather in me. I find myself more connected here than any other time or place before. I am as a part of this eternal motion as the ripe red fruits that sway in the warm air. This place is wild, free, and utterly connected to everything that is, ever was, and will ever be. It seems strange to me now, to think that everything was once as wild as this little corner of earth. When I think of it, wild the earth still remains buried beneath and lying dormant under a blanket of asphalt and buildings. I may be alone in the garden, but I carry with me the ideas, experiences, and memories of all that I have encountered. Inhaling the sweet scent of tomato plants allows me to forget the stench of smog. The dark soil on my toes allows me to forget the feel of hot asphalt. Listening to the buzz of the honey bees and the chirping of the birds allows me to forget the clamor of the cars. This moment in the garden allows me to forget moments before and endure moments afterwards, moments when the blue of the sky is insulted by the criss-cross of telephone wires and when the sway of the trees is replaced with the stillness of steel buildings. When I find myself surrounded by walls, I remember this moment in the garden, and a feeling of calm sweeps over me, just as the wind brushes the leaves of the tomato plants.

Sunday

The wonderful Tutu has wonderfully contributed this wonderful piece of writing for the blog! Respond with your own writing!

Sunday

Sunday 9:57 am, the sun was shining high and the birds were chirping, but I would rather hear sharp nails on the chalkboard or exaggerated crying, filthy diapered babies pulling my hair, because next to waking up Sunday mornings, the small brown feathered critters were my least favorite. Sunday morning, I would rather jump off a cliff.

10:03 am, gravity pulls me down to my knees as if I am to plead for forgiveness. So I sacrifice the brunette strands off my head and beg, “never again.” If I did not then I would probably be forced to green linoleum tiles of the kitchen floor. I will have no choice but to lay there for awhile.

10:10 am, all natural organisms like water tasted like metallic shavings and rust formed into cleared pristine liquid. Ice cream took forever to reach the buds of my tongue without spilling or sticking to my inner thighs. Before I could even get the spoonful of vanilla to my lower lip, I was stumbling and bent over the toilet bowl again. 

10:19 am, I am napping next to some blackish green fungus growing on the side of the toilet seat.

10:33 am, saliva trails down my cheek, my hair remains a lion’s mane and the red lipstick still stains my dress, but nothing bothers me as much as John’s number on my left hand. Smooth acid jazz vibes, lifts the spirits of the lounge including the black haired man with the ‘no ring,’ profile. As soon as I drop my eyes to the floor, he slowly swags through the crowd and makes his way towards me. Just to say, “Hi, I’m John.” What was I thinking? Gagging in my mouth, I would scrub the numbers with soap over and over again, for what seemed like hours, but the ink just would not erase. Permanent imprints from last night to leave me with more regrets. 

From the sink, I finally notice the repugnant smell from my roommate’s bedroom. I could not help but think, “Thank God, Carol went home this weekend.” Trudging from the bathroom to Carol’s door, the stench becomes more distinct and so familiar to my body that my stomach churns and regurgitates the rest of the memories of last night-- it could not be any worst than the damage that has been done to Carol’s white panda sheets.

10:45 am, that one vein above my right temple, pulses all red bloody aggravation I am feeling towards this dreadful day. I make a 360 degree turn around my small abode, notice all the chores I am left with from Saturday nights to early Sunday mornings. Every Sunday equals hell. Sunday is my horrific reminder of Mondays, sitting in comparative politics, nodding yes to everything going on. Sunday is yet another holy day to evoke all my sins. 

11:59 pm I feel disgusting.

Happy Thanksgiving

Hey all in the blogosphere!

Happy post exam week relief, Happy pre Thanksgiving gobble, Happy who-cares-about-grades- because-they're-not-out-yet -- just HAPPY!

This is something I've been wanting to do for a while now... A building story!! (that is, a story that builds, not a story about buildings) Here's what's going to happen: I'll start a story, just a paragraph or so to set the scene, then all of you can add on. You can add a sentence, a paragraph, a page, you can make it funny, tragic, fantastical, do whatever you want with it so long as you just respond, just write. Okay, here we go...

It was a Tuesday and the snowflakes had begun to fall. They whirled down in airy spirals as if the gods were having a sleepover party and in their girlish squeals opted for a pillow fight that broke the clouds open. Gethsemane stared out the window, hand on chin, chin in hand. It was not a good Tuesday. Yes, the snowflakes were falling, and yes, the land of Dulog was best in winter, but today was not a good Tuesday.

Happy World Peace Day!

It's International World Peace Day! All around the world no one is fighting, no one is killing, all is well... In theory of course, but it's a lovely thought. If you are interested in learning more about the day and the story behind it, I would recommend going to www.peaceoneday.org and clicking around.

So, since this is the writing blog I was going to put up a poem about peace, but then I decided that lyrics are poetry and what is more peace-ish than a song. (Plus I had writer's block and calculus homework- not a pleasant combination) Now I wouldn't go so far as to say these lyrics are poetic, but this is a song I wrote about peace when I was around 13. I apologize for bad rhymes, bad puns and any other general badness... But Happy World Peace Day! Feel free to post your poems, thoughts, dreams, songs, anything! Without Further ado...

Welcome!

Hellooooo Everyone! Welcome back to the land of the textbook and the home of the Husky. If you are new to this blog then here's all you need to know: We are Gould Academy Out Loud and we write. This is a nonjudgmental, zero pressure environment to post your poems, thoughts, short stories, college essays or anything else you wish to share with our digital community. The ultimate goal of this blog is that we get enough writing up to publish a once-per-trimester Gould newspaper.

Ready to post something? Here's how, you can either post it as a comment off of this entry, or you can email me at goldberg.abbie@gmail.com and I will make it its own post.

SO, come all ye writers and WRITE! There's no rubric, no rules and you can be anonymous so no pressure. Welcome to the sanctuary of words set free, a haven for all that is creative.

Happy Writing!

People You Know

Anonymous

Hanging out with the people you love, but haven't seen in what feels like years is incredibly satisfying. You can't seem to get enough of these people. You want nothing more than to spend hours and hours catching up, going over every little insignificant detail in your lives, just to be around each other for a little bit longer. You feel elated, like you're on cloud nine. You laugh over the stupid and funny things, nod sympathetically over the things they get upset about, tell them you know what they mean about everything. And they do they same for you. And then there's seeing the people that you thought were your good friends, and have been betrayed by them. They don't know that you know, and they probably don't think that they did anything wrong by you. But they didn't tell you what happened, even though you deserve their respect, having been their loyal friend for the last 13 or 14 years of your life. But they are afraid that you do know, and try to avoid you, even while saying that they miss you and that they want to see you and hang out with you. They make up excuses that are blatantly false in order to keep conversations short and in their control. When they finally do allow a conversation to start up they barely stop talking in order to make sure that you can't confront them about what they did. It's sad, to see someone you thought you knew so well act so pathetic. It makes you feel as though you didn't know them after all. It also makes you feel a little stupid, to know that you didn't see this coming.

Happy Summer!

I hope everyone is having an awesome first few days of summer and finding lots of time for whatever creative endeavors suit their fancy. Here are some poems that I made yesterday out of a newspaper that seemed to be screaming "I am a poem! I am a poem! Please cover me in black ink!"

Feel free to post anything you've been working on and happy summer!